okay so I finally caved and downloaded app, so let's see if that fixes this weird code issue. a huge thanks to Randomness for calling attention to the last chapter!I can also be found on AO3 as BoneYard Betty The Elder. Any Tumblr users can look me up there, as well, where I'll be posting art, teasers, and answering questions!

The atmosphere that surrounded that pair was frigid and heavy. Boone had barely looked at her when she returned to Doc Mitchell's house on the hill, as she leaned heavily on her long barreled repeater while her head swam and the stars spun around her, and the next day, while her head pounded and ached from the minor hangover, as well. At times, though, it seemed that as soon as the Courier looked at Boone, he was swinging his eyes away from her. The few times she did catch his eye, the lines around his mouth deepened into sharp shadows and his dry lips would thin out into a white slash across his face, an entirely unpleasant expression. She would curse herself under her breath and resume what she had been doing, albeit with an angry fervor fueled by rage towards herself.

'Boone's loyalty', what a joke', she thought to herself, mentally mocking the good Doctor. 'The man saved my life out of some twisted sense of duty, and I ain't convinced that he's not gunna try to shoot me in the throat next time I fuck up.'Maybe she should have left him back in Novac, left him to his own mission, his own devices. It would be an awful shame if she had to add his name to her to-do list, but, she reasoned, she couldn't very well kill one man who tried to murder her and let another go free, now could she?

Seven guns laid spread on the parlor floor between the two, being taken apart and cleaned. The Courier enjoyed watching Boone oil and polish his beloved rifle, disassembling the scope and stock with practiced ease, having seen him service his gun several times in the course of just a handful of weeks. She liked the way his fingers plucked gently away at the clips, the way the muscles of his forearms moved under his skin as he polished away any grit or sand, and was usually content to watch him quietly as she serviced her own weapons, clumsy and slow in comparison. This time the silence was pressing uncomfortably into her skin, making her hyper aware of the dry heat in the house, Doc Mitchell's absence, the lingering feeling of illness in the pit of her stomach, every sharp intake of breath from Boone when she left the room to retrieve more water. It all quickly overwhelmed her, so she fiddled with her Pip-Boy until the New Vegas radio station came in over the static; she had given up listening to the radio station that came in crisp and clear throughout the entire Mojave weeks ago, tired of the same dozen or so tunes on repeat every couple of hours. Mr. New Vegas, on the other hand, was programmed with a smooth, attractive voice and a few helpings of songs to keep her from getting too bored. He supplied the travelers with mellow tunes that filtered through the house, and Boone looked bits and pieces less tense across from her, no longer so pointedly avoiding acknowledging her song after familiar song. It sure helped the Courier ignore him more organically.

The dulcet tones of 'Johnny Guitar' faded as Mr. New Vegas's voice came back to the air, announcing the morning news. Clarke generally tuned out his words to appreciate his general tone, but as soon as he began to speak, she dropped her greasy cloth and cranked at the volume nob on her Pip-Boy as she listened, "A package courier found shot in the head near Goodsprings has reportedly regained consciousness, and has made a full recovery. Nowthat'swhat I call a delivery service you can count on."

Boone's eyes were round behind his shades, and his own hands had become very still. The Courier wanted to scream, or spit, or start throwing gun parts around the room, but she settled for muttering, "what the fuck," under her breath and slamming her 10mm pistol back together. If that motherfucker in the checkered coat didn't already know she wasn't dead, he was going to figure it out soon, and she'd be on the losing side of this game again. "Fuck fuck fuck." She needed to get back to New Vegas. She needed to stop fucking around.

"Clarke?" Boone asked, voice low in his chest as if she was a wild coyote, hackles raised and snarling. He didn't sound much like he wanted to talk at all, and suddenly Clarke really didn't care to speak either. She grabbed her machete and whet stone and refused to look at the sniper, trying to gather up her thoughts and formulate a plan, some sort of prayer to get her to Benny before he rabbitted off with his ill gotten prize, taking away any chance she had at finding some answers. She needed to get to New Vegastoday, not in four or five. She needed to gonorthinstead of fucking around the wasteland again.

The Courier thought of the map of the Mojave on her Pip-Boy with it's meager smattering of little markers, showing her meandering path from Goodsprings to the gates of New Vegas, where she had been stupid enough to turn tail and run back to Novac. There was a narrow, cracked highway that went by the old gas station that ran north then east to connect to Interstate 15, far past Sloan and, she hoped, their Deathclaw problem. A day's walk would get them to the city, instead of almost a week.Fuck this 'too dangerous' shit. There isn't a single place in the Mojave that isn't dangerous.

"Clarke?" Boone asked again, a little louder. His teeth snapped against each other as he barked out the syllable, and the Courier curled her lip against the clear order in his rough voice.

Despite the urge to swing the butt of her machete into the side of his jaw to show him exactly what she thought of his command, she answered anyway, pressing her blade against the stone with a shriek from the metal, boring her eyes into Boone's with all the anger and frustration she felt roiling in her belly. "North," she bit back. "I'm loading my pack and heading north, not stoppin' 'til I get to thatfuckingcity, not bopping around in a giant circle again."

This time Boone leveled his eyes to meet Clarke's stare, his look stoic and icy to her burning hot fury. "You?"

The single syllable question spoke more than one would have assumed, but the Courier shrugged against the tide of guilt in an effort to undermine the ferocity of her prior statement. "You are, of course, welcome. As always, you can decide not to travel with me at any time."

The sniper, seemingly satisfied with her answer, nodded and clicked the stock of his rifle back into place before unfolding himself from the floor and grabbing the Courier's ragged pack.

"Then let's go."

The narrow road was in much better condition than the ones that the Courier had become accustomed to while traveling the highways that saw heavy traffic from town to town, cracked and pitted every couple hundred of yards from the years and landslides the shifted the earth underneath the concrete. Huge stretches of the Long 15 were laid to waste, swaths of asphalt completely gone with only a beaten path to connect flat islands of concrete, but I-15 also didn't have an ominous 'KEEP OUT' sign perched right next to the road just outside of town. Bent and twisted stop signs accompanied the huge notice, and the two travelers exchanged a glance, but that didn't stop Clarke from eating up the distance between herself and the signposts after only a moment. As she had said prior, Boone could walk away from all of this whenever he wanted, so she didn't bother to linger to see if he still had her back – this was what she was doing, Boone or no.

Besides, he had had plenty of time to graciously bow out this time, when they had gone to announce their departure from the town. Both Doctor and Mayor had several things to say about the dangers the two were about to run right back into, objections and insistences upon staying longer in the sleepy town, and Sunny Smiles shook her head and begged the two to heed her warnings of new, deadly predators that had started to invade the Mojave from the mountains and unpredictable pockets of raiders that patrolled the less traveled roads to the north.

The sniper had stood there, a silent stone behind her, while she waved off their concerns and jingled several handfuls of caps out of her purse to thrust into a pile on the bar between the three citizens. They had tried to argue over that, as well, but Clarke finally convinced them that the town could use the resources, and not to begrudge her proper gratitude. A couple of caps in exchange for saving her life twice was quite the small price to pay, in Clarke's mind, and Boone had followed her out the door after a solid handshake from Doc Mitchell and a familiar wave from Sunny. Even Trudy had spared Boone an approving nod, who had returned it, resentful respect clear in the interaction.

Not twenty meters ahead of the signs there were more, and little barricade of dirt and rocks that made a hill in the middle of the road, which Clarke scrambled up to survey her surroundings. Before them laid the same narrow, cracked highway, nestled deep in a gully with sides far too steep for either of the travelers to climb for a better vantage point, and the little chasm turned and twisted a while before disappearing from view. She unsheathed her machete and turned to Boone with a nod, who unholstered his rifle. Going was slow from there on, Clarke taking point and creeping as close to the outside curves of the ragged street to maximize her perspective. The hours inched on, and soon the sun was beaming hard on her covered head, making her itch and sweat in the late afternoon sun. The once comfortable Vault Suit soon clung under her arms and between her legs wetly, and she was sure Boone was just as uncomfortable, having traded in his usual white tee for a canvas button down to protect his damaged skin and keep his bandages dust free, and a quick glance back confirmed it, his collar and far down his chest was soaked as she was.

'Not so much a stone, now are you, Sniper?' she thought with some sick glee adding more pep to her step. Before long, the gully finally opened to reveal the rolling hills of the lower mountains, and on the horizon was New Vegas, seemingly close enough to touch, and Clarke realized the progress they had made in such a few short hours since early morning. She resolved to stop soon; it was creeping on a little past noon, and felt that some sort of celebration was in order for their hard walking, even if it was only to stand still while chewing on the huge chunks of lizard jerky and bruised crunchy mutfruit she had stuffed into her pack from Doc Mitchell's kitchen.

The lower mountains had little cover from the already brutal sun, leaving Clarke jealous of Boone's heavy shades that he constantly wore. She resolved to loot a pair at her earliest convenience, wondering where she would have to end up before finding something intact. She had found that she had a knack for 'prospecting', a lucrative and relatively nonfatal career, and had the caps to prove it, but she hadn't really thought of adding to her collection of belongings, figuring that pre-catastrophic head injury Courier had everything that post-catastrophic head injury Courier would need. Maybe her eyesight had been effected by the whole bullet to the brain thing.

"Clarke," she heard Boone hiss out in a clear warning, and she quickly dropped to one knee and froze, squinting her eyes. The sniper shifted up to her side and motioned down the highway, towards a little plat with a charred circle in the middle, surrounded on three sides by steep cliff faces. On the northernmost incline, Clarke finally noticed the half dozen or so huge figures through the glare of the early afternoon light, and she watched them, holding her breath, waiting to see if they had noticed the two travelers, minutes passing before she realized that they were still, save for the fluttering of feathers and fabric in the sparse Mojave breeze. She glanced at Boone, confused.

The sniper wasn't looking at the hazy figures in the distance, though. His eyes were darting around, head bobbing and weaving like a bird's as he took stock of their surroundings as he crept forward on the balls of his feet, balanced precariously around his rifle and shuffling forward in an awkward ball of limbs. Clarke would have laughed under different circumstances, but she just watched with bated breath, anxiety filling her chest and creeping up the back of her throat as her grip on her machete became shakier and shakier, completely unaccustomed to the tense silence that seemed to be a precursor to some sort of altercation. Bum rushing her opponents had worked relatively well for her in the past, and she hadn't even considered that she might be able to sneak up on unsuspecting baddies – something she'd do well to take into consideration in the future, maybe.

Minutes passed before Boone stood slowly, unfolding himself from around his gun, apparently satisfied with their surroundings. Clarke stayed rooted where she was, close to the ground, and flexed her bandaged hand, antsy. "We clear?" she stage whispered.

"Looks like it," Boone responded, kicking his way to the messy fire pit, sticking the toe of his boot into the charred earth. "It's cold."

The Courier got to her feet, back and knees protesting at the movement after being still for those long minutes while her heart pounded in her chest, and meandered over to the closest figure, wrinkling her nose as she examined the gruesome effigy. It towered several feet over her head, sticks and poles wrapped together to form arms that pointed up to the sky, and a brahmin skull grinned down at her, perched in between the arms like a head, bones surrounding it like a terrible halo. It was draped in chains with a hubcap on it's front, and Clarke stepped around to it's side for a better look, only to come face to face with a human skull, polished to a shine in the Mojave sun.

"Whatthefuck," she muttered under her breath, reaching out to touch the purple fabric draped around the statue's shoulders that sat bunched around the skull, surprised to see an intricate batiked pattern dyed into the folds, a very beautiful addition to the otherwise horrific decoration. What the fuck, indeed.

"It's a Great Khan war totem," Boone's voice was so close to her ear, she jumped and stumbled face first into the skull's grin, cracking her head against it's teeth before she jerked back and tripped right into Boone's sweat damp chest. He steadied her with one hand on her upper arm before stepping back several feet with a mumbled apology, face shades more red than it had just been. Clarke shook off the startle; she was surprised that she hadn't noticed the sniper creeping up behind her through the loose gravel, surprised at Boone's proximity.

"A what?" she asked, turning around to face her companion, touching her forehead gingerly. Her fingertips came away slightly pink and she rolled her eyes. Everything in the Mojave had teeth, it seemed.

"A Great Khan war totem," Boone repeated, looking over her shoulder as he answered her. "I don't know what it's for."

The Courier nodded her acknowledgement and slid her pack off of her shoulders to rummage through one handed, keeping her grip tight on her machete as she grabbed clumsily for the kerchief filled with mutfruit. She shoved a leather of jerky into her mouth and tossed a length to Boone, chewing absentmindedly as she meandered over to a bullet pocked sign that labeled the road as Nevada 160. Clarke brought up her Pip-Boy and placed a marker where the global positioning had her standing on the map. "What would you call this place, then? Creepy Abandoned Great Khan Fire Pit?"

Boone turned to her with an unamused look as he raised his eyebrow, and she wondered if he realized that she was being deliberately obtuse. Humor was, for the most part, lost on the stony sniper it seemed. "It's a camp."

Clarke plucked at the nobs and buttons on her Pip-Boy, speaking as she typed. "Alright, alright, how does Makeshift Great Khan Camp sound?"

"Less stupid," was Boone's answer, and the Courier responded with a loud laugh; she didn't care if the levity was intentional or not, the pregnant atmosphere from that morning had almost completely evaporated, leaving behind the familiar feeling of awkward companionship that she had come to appreciate from him. She crouched down next to the moldy bedroll, briefly considering plopping her sore ass down onto the mat before thinking better of it. The Vault Suit she was wearing only had a little bit of blood crusted around the cuffs and the dirt on the knees and elbows hadn't been ground into the fabric yet, leaving the suit looking crisp, by Mojave standards, at least, and she wanted to try to preserve that for as long as possible.

She tossed more things at Boone, each throw going a little wider to the right than the last to force him to react quickly on his feet, reaching out or jumping up to catch the mutfruit or the bottle of dirty water out of the air before it splattered onto the concrete. The sniper was quite the physical specimen, strong and agile, so the Courier didn't feel the least bit bad keeping him on his toes with a quick 'hey catch' before flinging something in his general direction.

At first Clarke didn't really notice the sound, more focused on her companion, mistaking it for the quiet breeze of the Mojave, until she heard the fluttering, which she dismissed out of hand as carrion birds flying overhead. It wasn't until Boone dropped his bottle into the hard packed sand, water flying in a shimmery arc around their feet and readied his rifle with a panicked expression on his face did she turn around. Sunlight beamed off of several sets of bright amber wings, glaring into the Courier's eyes painfully, but she did see the hulking insects that hung between those wings, easily five times bigger than a bloatfly and much more menacing. In the center of the swarm was the biggest of the bugs, twice as large as it's companions, wings flapping like a heavy flag. They were spiked and gleamed blue in the sun, and bloody red eyes twisted around in sockets to find their prey. She couldn't count them as they bobbed and weaved sporadically, but Boone's rifle cracked once, then twice. The big bug's right wing was ripped into shreds by the first bullet, and the second buried itself into it's thorax, but it just dropped to the sand and started skittering towards the pair.

Boone squeezed his trigger again and then looked back at the Courier, who was frozen by her pack. His face twisted into a snarl, full of fear. "Run!" He screamed, voice cracking. Remembering Ranger Station Charlie, Clarke sprang into action to obey, throwing her bag onto her back and leaping over the old fire pit to run past the Great Khan totems, scrambling up the cliff face. She threw her machete up onto a ledge and whirled around with her cowboy repeater already in her hands, screaming out a 'fuck!!' when she saw what Boone was doing.

He was calmly walking backwards, back up the highway the way they had come, popping off shot after shot at the swarm of monsters that was quickly bearing down on him. One reared back and rushed Boone with it's abdomen pointed right at him, tipped with an angry looking barb, but the sniper managed to shoot the demon down before the stinger could connect.

Another swept up his side and he responded with a two handed shove on the barrel of his rifle, throwing the bug to the concrete and stomping down on it's thorax, where it lay still save for the weak fluttering of broken wings. Clarke looked down her sight, trying to take aim, but the flying insects were fast, weaving around each other in desperate attempts to attack the man, who kept his calm walk backwards as he reloaded his gun.

The Courier managed to pop a few rounds out of her repeater, two of the bullets connecting to one of the smaller creatures, thinning the herd rushing towards the sniper. "Run, Boone, goddamnit!!" she hollered as bullet casings pinged out of her repeater, throwing the butt of the gun deep into her injured shoulder, but the adrenaline pumping hard through her body made the connection seem dull and pillowed. Two more of the insects fell to the ground, leaving three swarming the man and the monstrous one still skittering across the sand in a wide circle, but Boone seemed to be ignoring her, still taking steady steps backwards, his brow furrowed deep in concentration and eyes never straying from his targets. So focused on drawing the swarm away from Clarke, he didn't seem to notice a fifth winged mutation flitting it's way through the rocks twenty yards behind him, much smaller than it's brethren.

Much faster, too.

"Behind you!"

It hit like a punch when it barreled into him, a solid thud connecting with his shoulder and pulling tight the muscles in his neck, and Boone thought that he hand managed to avoid the venomous spike until the young cazador wrapped it's blue body around his arm tightly. He felt the skin and muscle split open underneath the fat stinger as it jabbed straight into the meat above his elbow, then the horrific icy burn of poison that followed. He screamed in pain and doubled over, dropping his rifle to bat fruitlessly at the cazador with his fist, then grabbed the thing from the back of it's carapace, sharp spikes piercing their way into the fleshy parts of his hand, pulling frantically as it's legs dug into the fabric of his shirt, tearing it off of himself and smashing it down underneath his knee.

Out of his periphery he could see Clarke closing the distance between them with huge leaps across the rocks and he would have hollered for her to run again if he wasn't clenching his teeth and huffing out short breaths, just trying to breathe, his entire arm on fire, but she had her 10mm in her hand instead of her machete. The shots popped off the wings of the closest cazador and splattered another, then she flipped the gun over in her hand and brought in crashing down on the third mutated insect, bouncing it off of the pavement and crushing it's thorax beneath her boot while she cocked her gun back and emptied her clip into the mature cazador, splattering it's yellow guts across the concrete. Boone would have been amazed if he hadn't been rolling on the highway with his left arm clutched between his knees, blood running freely between his fingers where he had torn the wide spike out of his flesh.

The world blurred around Boone as a contraction of pain hit him like a shotgun blast to the gut, giving Clarke an auburn halo around her face as she grabbed fistfuls of shirt around his shoulders and started dragging him across the pavement and into the sand, rolling the sniper onto his back. She tried to pry his hand away from the puncture, but his muscles had seized and formed claws out of his fingers that, no matter how hard he willed, wouldn't uncurl. Boone had heard of soldiers encountering cazadores in the wasteland, half an outfit or more decimated by swarms of the beasts, the brutal, lingering toxin that wracked the body with pain and seizures and how blood would pour from the nose, then the eyes, and then the ears as the body turned to liquid from the inside. He swore he could already smell his flesh cooking away, and he rocked his head to the side as a bit of bloody foam flew from his lips when he gagged.

"Fuckinglet goBoone,fuck!" Clarke screamed hoarsely, pounding her bandaged hand hard into the crook of his right shoulder, directly into the soft tissue where it connected to the muscle underneath his collarbone, driving his already sparse breath out of his chest. His hand flew free in the spasm and the Courier wrestled it underneath a knee as she ripped open the sleeve of his canvas button-down, only to rear back with a curse. "Fuckers are venomous, aren't they?" She slapped Boone when he only answered with a moan, her face fierce and wild. "Aren't they?"

"Yes!" Boone cried, finding his voice. Clarke swore again and scrambled up and over to her pack, ripping through it before running back to his side; her hands were shaking as they ripped the shoulder of his shirt away and tied some surgical tubing around his arm above the sting, the tube biting painfully into his flesh. She shook mutfruit out of the handkerchief in her hand and filled it with buffalo gourd seeds, twisting it up and then standing, dropping it to the ground before unceremoniously stomping down onto it with her heel several times. When she opened the fabric, the seeds had formed a gritty dust and she grabbed Boone's arm, who tried to wretch it away. "What are you –"

"I don't know!" she yelled, grabbing at Boone's arm again. This time she pinned Boone's injured arm under her knee, and with a barely audible, "sorry man," she pried open the already gaping wound and shoved the powder deep into the muscle, grinding it underneath his flesh with a dirty thumb. The sniper screamed and bucked upwards, but the Courier clamped her hand down over the puncture and squeezed, sealing it with her palm. Boone twisted weakly and let out a pained sob; death was one thing, a painful death was an entirely different beast altogether, and the Courier was apparently helping him along, causing another, more sour pain to blossom in his belly, the feeling of delirious betrayal.

Several seconds stretched on, punctuated by Clarke's huffing breath and Boone's moans, while the sniper waited for more waves of crippling pain to wash over him. Ten seconds turned into thirty, then sixty, then Clarke's rigid grip on his upper arms loosened and she lifted her knee off of Boone's crushed palm. Blood was pulsing it's sluggish way down his arm, much slower than before, and the radiating pain was starting to consolidate and centralize to where he had nearly been penetrated down to the bone, and he found that his mouth was simply bloody from where he had bitten down on his tongue in agony. Boone moved the swollen muscle around to poke at his lips, feeling ragged but alive, and Clarke was gently lifting his arm and untying the surgical tubing.

There was a capability in the Courier that he had never seen in Carla, who never lacked in tenacity, certainly, but blood panicked her, confrontation made her shake, she would close her eyes and turn away from splinters and cuts, delicate lips turning down and perfectly trimmed eyebrows drawing up into a line of concern. The Courier's thick, unkempt eyebrows were drawn down over her eyes, giving her an intense glare of concentration as she wiped at Boone's torn and bloody skin with the arm of his shirt, unflinching and practiced. In fact, she was so different from Carla that Boone was starting to really wonder why he ever sought to compare the two; Carla had been like a thorny desert flower, beautiful and sharp, but Clarke, she was a different thing entirely, she was the Colorado, wide and vast with untold depths, or the Mojave herself, with secrets and dangers. Clarke wasn't beautiful, she was terrifying, and Boone hated to find that he enjoyed it, being led by the winds of Hurricane Clarke.

The sniper let his head fall back, jostling his beret, and sucked in a deep breath when the Courier probed at the edges of his wound, sealing the flesh together tightly around the grit that Boone could feel grinding together underneath his skin. "Certainly not Carla," Boone mumbled quietly, but the Courier's hands faltered for a moment before she resumed her steady ministrations, sparing Boone a long, mournful look with her expressive eyes. Those looks, from underneath her long, light lashes, had made Boone's belly squirm since the first night they met, but this time it made him want to wriggle away from her, or maybe closer, he wasn't quite sure. The Courier took the choice from him when she grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled his shoulder up onto her knee awkwardly.

Clarke gave a sigh and shook her head. "No, no I'm not, Boone. I'm sorry," she said, and she absolutely did sound sorry, but Boone just wanted to laugh deliriously as she apologized for her existence while she wrapped gauze around his arm to staunch the flow of blood that was still leaking from his arm.

"I'm not," the sniper responded truthfully, guilt creeping down through his belly to make his knees hurt, but all he could really think was how badly the prior ten minutes would have gone had he had Carla at his side instead of Clarke. The Courier curled one corner of her dry lips into her cheek and raised one eyebrow in an expression of obvious bemusement, and though she didn't say anything, Boone could almost hear her saying, "Yeah fucking right man," as she stuck a finger behind his ear.

"No fever," she said instead, and pushed Boone off of her lap none too gently, getting up and grab his uninjured arm to haul him to his feet. She was much too short to offer any sort of real support for him, but he put his hand on her shoulder to lean against her heavily, feeling lightheaded from the loss of blood and vaguely appreciating the strength of his small companion; underneath the fabric of her suit her body was sinewy and muscled, if a bit gaunt, and her small stature belied her brawn. While Boone was being honest with himself, he decided that he may as well admit that he liked the way she looked in her new Vault Suit, too. The one she had worn prior was baggy and big, and he couldn't understand why she had bothered with it at all. This one, though, seemed to have been tailored to her, it didn't hang off of her frame and made her look less like a child dress in adult clothing, it showed that she had a trim waist and a little swell to her chest that he hadn't noticed before. At Doc Mitchell's house, he had struggled to keep his eyes off of her every time she left the room, but had begged it off quickly; it had been a long time since Carla died, and Boone hadn't crossed paths with a new face, especially one as comely as the Courier's, in almost as long. It was all ghouls and fiends and Jeanie May Crawford and Manny Vargas for the last two years, and despite how Clarke teased him, he wasn't made of stone.

The sniper was wretched from his thoughts when the Courier pushed off of his waist with one hand and collected her pack. He bent down slowly and grabbed his rifle from the ground, and she came back to his side and titled her head at him. "You good?" she asked, reaching out to push the open sleeve of his shirt away from his chest a bit, examining the bandages he had gotten from Ada Strauss.

"Yeah," Boone answered, grabbing her hand then pushing it away awkwardly. He disliked how agreeable he was to the contact. A long time, indeed. Underneath the cliff face of the plateau, he pointed out the wood-pulp hives that must've housed the cazadores, and the Courier narrowed her eyes as if she was searching her mind for any information that may have lingered in her brain concerning the creatures, but then shook her head. Boone wondered what kind of hidden knowledge she had that she didn't realize she possessed. "How did you know what to do? About the poison?"

She shrugged her shoulders and hooked her thumbs through the straps of her pack, and when she spoke, she had a whine in her voice. "Oh man, c'mon, I don't know why I do half the shit I do. It worked, didn't it?"

Boone gave her a long look, but just looked away and wrinkled his nose after a moment. There was certainly no guesswork in what she had done. No, it was no guess. Just like she was no Courier.